Just punishment
by ashinsai
Summary: Think being shipped back to ones parents is not enough of a punishment for Hans? Description of imprisonment and torture ahead. The prince, fallen from grace goes onto a journey with a companion whose character rivals his own twisted self. Ranges into fetish-territory.
1. The prince

His cell was small and barren except for the rusty drain in one corner and a pallet of straw for sleeping. They had neither given him chair nor table, not that he could easily have reached those. His chains were barely long enough so he could rest on the stinking pallet, full of rats droppings and mildew. Sleep did not come easy these days, the moth-eaten blanket only holding off the worst of the nights chill, no comfort given to him.

At least his prison had a window. He could see sky and follow the passage of days. On the ship he had been confined below deck, deep within the hull. Seeing sun again, feeling wind on his face was almost a relief. As a navy-man he was used to the moving ship under him, the waves breaking against the hull, but not being able to leave the crammed cell they had put him in, the voyage had been a torture. The climate of the Southern Isles was less cold than Arendelle had been, but he could not relish in the summer air, his prison emitting its own smell of death, fungus and confinement.

The shackles around his wrists chafed, skin already red and breaking. The food and water they gave him barely enough to keep him alive, his lips parched and mouth dry. This was worse than everything he had expected. He was a royal son, not some peasant nobody in their right mind would care for. He deserved better. He still thought that.

On the third day she came into his cell. A hood covered the figures face, a dark robe hiding her body from view, but clearly she was female. The woman moved with an easy grace, wielding a long hooked knife with apparent expertise. The mornings light glinted off the cruel blade, a warning. Whatever this was, he could not escape or hope for mercy. He was a lost son, judged and trialed for regicide. He had at least hoped for a fast and clean death, now it seemed not even that would be given to him.

When the woman started to speak her voice was surprisingly warm, a low and comforting timbre, words of regret that did nothing to ease his mind.

"Your majesty, I assure you this does not give me joy nor will you likely enjoy it. Our allies deserve to know punishment has been delivered and we will treat you accordingly. I hope you will understand."

The woman gestured to his gaolers and with practised motions they tightened the chains binding him so he had to stand upright, hands fastened to the wall, facing the room. They brought in a table at last, but not for him to sit at and write, just so his torturer would be able to lay down her tools. The hooked blade went into a sheath at her hip. If he would be able to reach it, if they would give him that chance to escape. He had been willing to cut down one woman, this one did mean nothing to him, he would carve through her to reach for his lost freedom. A sad smile graced thin, unpainted lips that he could see beneath the shadow of the hood. "You can take that longing gaze off my weapon, your majesty. It will do you no good and hope is so fleeting, futile. Just close your eyes. I will give you knives, you won't like it." She said and reached for a thin blade that was laid out on black velvet upon the table. Other knives and hooks and pins accompanied it there, glistening, clean, a promise of future pain beyond his imagination.

The dull part of the small blade pressed lightly against his collarbone. Cold metal on skin, almost caressing, the tips of the woman's fingers almost as cold as the brushed his neck.

"You don't even wear gloves?" As soon as he heard his own mocking voice reverberating in the dank chamber he regretted having uttered a word. He had just now thought her an inexperienced torturer, but her polite answer gave him a chill.

"The blood washes off easier that way, I don't want to ruin the leather your majesty."

She began cutting down his clothes, still sodden from the journey across sea. It would almost have been a relief being rid of the filthy garments, if it would not have left him bare before his torturer.

The gaolers had left the room, at least one of them looked like he was going to be sick when he had caught sight of the instruments of torture that awaited the prince's pleasure on the table. Maybe some of his subjects still had respect or even a liking of him, maybe it was just that the man knew what awaited him. The royal prisoner closed his eyes when the remnants of his shirt tumbled to the ground, a gust of air tickling the sparse reddish hair on his chest. She had left him his breaches, how forthcoming.

"Oh dear," she said, tugging at the chesthair with a disapproving cluck of her tongue. "This'll have to go. Seems like we'll start with the pincers."

Quite conscious of his hair elsewere on his body the prince's eyes widened.

"Do they think I'd be humbled if they sent a woman to do this? To embarass me further? This does not even make sense. Why torture? There is no information to gain."

That smile again, thin lips curved upwards the feeling of being regarded thoughtfully.

"You need not know everyone in your loving parent's service. I am just what I am, doing my duty like everyone. As for the purpose of your impeding suffering, your majesty, it would be easy if it were for information. It is not."

These were the last coherent words uttered in the room for many hours. When her silent work was done the hair on the unlucky royal's upper body was gone. He had been right in thinking the chest area would not be that bad. When she had taken her pincers to the armpits it had hurt like hell. He found it curious that she should have left the stubble on his chin, but apparently it was important, that he should not be able to recognise himself if ever he would look into a mirror again. It was quite unthinkable they should allow him to shave. Anyway, the pain she could inflict with her pair of pincers had paled soon when she exercised her little knives. Apparently there was an art to how she carved her markings into his skin.

A basin for her hands and a washcloth was brought, the gaolers not daring to glance at him. He still stood proud, if weak. Not that his shackles would have left him much slack.

With surprising gentleness she washed the blood off his body, thin rivulets of red running towards the drain on his floor. Then a burning salve was applied, presumably to keep the shallow wounds from becoming inflamed.

The torturer then left the room, his chains were loosening, running through holes in the wall. He hissed sharply to the new pain in his muscles when his arms came back down to his sides. Groaning he rolled down onto his straw pallet in a fetal position. There was no way he could lie where none of his wounds were aggravated. Everything hurt. What was the purpose of this? Why did his parents allow for this to happen? Dark thoughts and even darker dreams carried him through the night. He did not even know who he hated more now. The frozen queen that had delivered him back to this or his own family, the one he never really felt belonging into and that now apparently thought fit to humiliate him by torture.

The following days went by in nearly the same manner. He was held up by his chains, pressed into the wall and cut about mercilessly. The woman was skilled enough to keep him on the brink of consciousness, never inflicting so much pain he would faint from the exertion but quite enough to make him scream until his throat was raw and his voice barely a whisper.

Afterwards she always cleaned him and dressed his wounds, gave him water that he gulped down greedily, droplets catching in his unkempt beard. He did not know then how many days had gone by, his thoughts drifting often, his wrists chafed raw. He would not beg for death or worse: mercy, deep inside he knew he deserved neither. But it was not that what kept him from yelling for her to stop, his pride would not allow it. His pride would not allow it and she knew.

He had not been asked any questions. No demands had been made. Like he had said, his parents and siblings already knew everything there was to know about him. A worthless son without a chance of ever ruling the kingdom he was born into. With parents who cared nothing for him, father only distant, mother outright cold. It was enough to freeze a heart.

He suspected they would slowly bleed him to death. Sparse meals and never enough water to really quench his thirst and the ministrations his only visitor was bestowing on him would sooner or later kill him. Maybe then they would deliver his broken and mangled body back to the cold queen and her gullible sister and use it for assuring the friendship of Arendelle.

He grinned on his pallet in the early hours of morning. If that was their plan it would not do. The queen had not killed him, though it would have been easy for her. Despite her seeming outwardly so chilly and distant at a first glance, she was too soft, too friendly. Should she learn of what she had delivered him to she would be horrified and appalled. Their families were just too different.

He jerked and curled up tighter when the creaking of the doorhinges told him of the arrival of his daily visitor. He pressed his eyes shut and swallowed. It felt as if his throat was full of sandpaper and shards of glass, his Adam's apple chafing over parched tissue.

"If only someone had mercy, your majesty." Her voice said, deep and melodic. She had come quite near this time, his chains still allowing for movement. He cracked one eye open, muscles drawing taut under his scarred skin.

"Do not even think about it my dear." The soft soles of her feet could be heard shuffling away a bit. She was walking over to her table. "Here."

A bottle was pressed to his lips. Not the insipid water he was now quite used to, but sweet red wine of apparently good quality. His surprise made him almost gag on the liquid that so deliciously ran down his throat. When she took away the bottle he sat up with some difficulty. His muscles were sore and had lacked exercise. He glanced to the sheath on her hip, it was empty, the knife was not in her hand either, it lay on the table with her other instruments of torture. He could try to grab her, wring that neck surely hidden somewhere in the depths of cowl and robe, but what then?

There was no shortage of torturers on the Southern Isles, just as there was no shortage of royal sons. Another would come and he was still bound, unable to escape. She nodded, as if she had listened in to his contemplating his options. It was impossible she should be in his head surely? His thoughts were only his?

He touched his face gingerly, his beard had finally earned that name despite his rather miniscule growth of facial hair in the past. Then he asked her why. Why the wine? Why the torture? Why did they not just get it over with?

She smiled and it seemed genuine. Somehow that answer was even more terrifying than anything she could have said. A simple gesture to his gaoler and his chains were wound up into the wall once more. He glared at the shadow under the dark hood. And this time he lost the last pieces of cloth and dignity that had been left to him.

He lay in darkness, not even moonlight filtering through the narrow bars of his window. The gloom of his cell was probably brightened a fraction by the stars outside. The straw of his pallet was jabbing angrily at his the tender naked flesh. The blanket offered not nearly enough shelter for him and was of a scratchy wool that was not favorable to his marred skin. He huddled into it nevertheless, desperate for some warmth and shelter. Without riches, royal garments or even a sword in his hand, what was left of him? Just the broken shell of a man, shivering in the darkness, full of fear. If he could get his hand on a weapon he might end it himself. He might take the only way out that was left for him. But they would not even grant him that. A dry sob wrung itself from his throat, a low keening noise he immediately fought down. There was not much pride left to him, but he would not be reduced to crying. Never again would they make him cry.

Something soft and light fell on him. He gasped. He could not get up that fast, but grabbed for the object that had landed on his blanket. Eyes half crusted with sleep he identified the thing as a bundle of clothes, breeches, shirt, coat. He blinked at the figure standing in the doorway and recoiled. Her.

"Hurry." She hissed, her whole body under tension like a loaded coil spring. He put on the breeches and held up his bound wrists. She had cut the last shirt off of him. With the chains he was unable to dress. She nodded and came over. His torturer grabbed for his wrist, something small and silvery in her hand reflecting the light and causing the prince to jerk away violently. He breathed heavily, eyes wide when she held out the small object in the palm of her hand, a lock pick. It did not take her long to remove the shackles and as she did so, holding his mangled wrist the prince thought he saw something glistening on her face. Quickly she drew her cowl tighter around her and went to the door, her back to him. If he wanted to overpower her, get at the weapons she surely had concealed about her person this would be the moment.

He finished dressing and went to the door slowly as she turned around again. A nod and they entered the corridor. His gaoler lay slumped in a corner, a bright red smile on his neck. Blood was seeping down sluggishly to the floor, stone and dirt tinted red. The man had brought him his food, he did not even have a key to his chains. He had not deserved that fate. The one who had delivered the poor wretch to it was the one the prince had rather seen dead.

She led him down through the dungeons, rounding corner after corner, death and mildew and prisoners excretions mingling to a horrifying smell. He retched but kept at the heels of his torturer, his demon, his liberator.

When they finally came to an opening that allowed fresh air to get into the confined spaces of the dungeon he smelled the salty winds of the sea. She had led him to an overhang from which he could see a small ship in a bay already sporting a black sail. They hurried down to the ship and she motioned for him to get them off land. Unseen in the moonless night, cutting through the shallow waves they left the Southern Isles that had been the home of his youth and his curse.

His hands found the rhythm of working the ship's rigging easily, motions often practised and gone into flesh and blood. Flesh bruised, blood spilled. He looked at his torturer who stood silently gazing out to the ocean. Her hands were unoccupied, hanging limp down her sides, she seemed unaware of his presence though she naturally had to know he was there.

Another opening, so easy to have her over board now, free again, revenge beckoning.

Instead he cleared his throat, asking: "Where are we going?"

The dark clad figure turned her head. "Your majesty, that is for you to decide. I would suggest Arendelle. They would probably welcome you as you are now."

"As I am now?" He grit his teeth. He was broken, a mess of scars and humiliation and had to fight the urge to recoil if she so much as lifted a hand. That would make him welcome?

He saw the sad smile under the hood again, the shadow lifting as she drew it back an inch. "You had the chance to kill me, at least thrice now on our escape. Yet you did not. Not even after what I did to you." She lifted the cowl, dark hair cascading down around a pale and solemn face. A face he did not know. Somehow he had hoped for it to be someone he knew, someone he could hate because he knew them. This was just a nondescript servant, neither ugly nor beautiful. He would not have given her a second glance had he met her about the castle, as he probably had, because she was his parent's subject.

She reached for the knife on her hip and offered it to him, hilt first. He just shook his head and turned away.

Maybe that was his test. And somehow it felt right to accept the punishment he had received and forgive the one that had delivered it. He turned around again and took the knife still in the woman's open hand.

"I need to shave." He said and she smiled and nodded. "I think I can bear to see your face again." It was a long ride to Arendelle. But he was finally free.


	2. The torturer

_Originally I did not want to write more than the first chapter. But somehow I could not help but think some more about it and so this came into existence. I should probably sleep more and write less just now, but I could not help it and I so love to torture our dear Hans. Not much actual torture here, just the mad musings of the torturer. Hans may be a sick sociopath, but she is not really the most healthy philanthropist either. Maybe I'll come back to this later. Somehow it's hard to let go. ;)_

* * *

><p>She gazed out into the dark waters churning around the small ship's hull. The sound of the waves was reassuring, a constant in life that reminded her of better times. Had there been better times?<p>

She vaguely remembered having been a child once. Living in a cottage by the sea, her father a simple fisherman and mother. Mother had gone to the castle and never came back. They said there was always work to be had in the castle. Well paid work in the stables or the kitchen. How had she ended up in the dungeons? The knife in her hand reflected the light of the lantern they had lit when they were far enough away from the shore. That knife and her shared a history. It was this weapon she had used to kill her first man. Dark blood gushing over her hand, staining the glove she had been wearing. She had thrown the things away, supplemosques ruined and reddish brown, maybe they could have been salvaged, but looking at the gloves alone had made her sick.

She took no pleasure from her work but had never shied away from it either. Sometimes things had to be done and sometimes they had to be done by you if you did not want them to be done to you.

She had understood fast enough, that other man in her past was just a fraction of a second to slow on the uptake. Surely he would have made a fine torturer too. He had made a fine corpse.

Her service to the royal family could not be called honourable. Others were there for honourable. She was in the darkness, steadfast, reliable, necessary and horribly wrong. She had known the royal family, naturally. So many less reliable advisors and ministers, mistresses and other confidants had ended in her care. And they were all too happy to tell her everything she wanted to know. She knew a lot of secrets and she had silently abhorred a lot of the things she had learned. The torturer was excellent at keeping her face hidden, her feelings even more so.

She breathed in, the air tasting of salt on her tongue. The wind was steady but not very hard, there was reason to hope they would not find themselves becalmed. It was a mild summer night with barely a chill. Even so she felt goosebumps on her neck, the presence of the other felt acutely behind her. But he was not minding a lowly peasant and why should he. It was well enough he should not have killed her.

Her duty was to all of the royal family, even the one brought to her in chains. They could not know how hard it was, the thing they wanted from her. How long could she keep up the pretense without giving something away and without really succeeding in what was asked of her? She kept up well, long hours of practise preparing her effectively. They has been informed on her progress, they had been pleased with the pain inflicted. But what they really wanted she had taken from them. They would probably forever wonder, why she had chosen to bow before the one they considered the lowest among them. The only one she had not considered beyond hope.

She had pulled her cowl back over her head after he had decided to let her live. Her dark gaze considered him from the shadow. The man worked the rigging, keeping a steady course for their destination, a world where there would be no place for someone like her.

She had liked the warmth. The Southern Isles were not as cold as the land they were heading to. Somehow she had even liked her clients, their moans and cries, their begging, whispering, sobbing. They confided in her and she had said "Yes my dear, I hear you. Hush now, everything will be fine." She had felt merciful when the warm blood of their hearts life ran over her fingers, the sobbing abating with the relief of deliverance.

She had hoped for deliverance too. There had been only wrong decisions. She could not kill him, but forsaking her duty to the royal family and everything she had been was just as hard. She deserved death for both, the torture as well as the disobedience. There had been no right path and here she stood, still breathing.

He seemed quite healthy still, maybe she had been too soft on him. He must have been tired by now, but they sailed on. Maybe he was scared to sleep in her presence. The scars on his chest, arms, legs, now hidden by the clothes she had brought him, she knew them by heart. A drawing in blood, knife and skin, dancing. She had promised herself to feel no pleasure in this, but she had broken that one too.

But still she could not understand herself. Such a marvelous piece of work, so great the pain. And then she saw the raw flesh of his wrists where the rusty shackles had chafed him and could not help but cry. She never cried. She made others cry.

The torturer was nevertheless proud. For he had not cried. She could feel the pride that kept him up, that kept him closed and cold and cruel melt away with each cut, bleed down onto the floor and down the drain with every soft stroke of the washcloth. Cleansing, purifying agony.

But he would not cry. She had admired that.

She liked him better without the beard. So much less like his father or his oldest brother. The one who would inherit the throne was very much alike his royal highness. Practical thinking men, keen on alliances, not keen on making allowances. But what is one son of thirteen, especially if he had already disgraced himself by being found out.

She would have loved to sink her blade into the one that had killed her mother. Treason. Just the thought. Treason. Unthinkable. Killing his brother? She could not even do that. He should have taken her life when she turned her back, when she ran before him, when she gazed out to the sea, when she offered him the knife to do it. Her first knife, first life. It would have been such a fitting end, a sweet one.

His hand in his hair, a smile on full lips, moistened by the salty spray. This man was used to being on a ship, this was more like home to him than the castle had ever been. He had probably been sent away early on, what else to do with a thirteenth son. This was not true for her at all. She wagered if the wind should take up and the waves go higher she would probably be violently sick. He probably had some respect for her, maybe even fear. Losing her dignity like that would not be acceptable.

She told him to go to sleep so long as the weather was still peaceful. It was true, he could use the rest. The torturer knew what she had done and how it could affect a body. If the sailing should get harder she would need him awake and able to keep them from sinking. He relented and went to the cabin closing his eyes.

Maybe she even wanted to live a little longer. The view was so very nice.


	3. The sailor

He woke feeling cold and stiff. Mist was rising along with the morning sun and his hammock was swinging softly with the movement of the waves. He felt eyes on the back of his head. A prickling sensation that made his hairs stand on end. Was that dreadful woman still awake? Looking at him? He almost did not want to turn around, almost expecting her face just inches from his back, staring holes into him with those unmoving black eyes of hers. Where they black? They had certainly seemed that way when she had put down her hood the last night. Was it even a woman? Or a demon? How long had he slept? Was this real? Had she been there or was it just a spectre conjured by his own imagination, his dread?

The pain in his joints and the wounds that crisscrossed over his body certainly felt real and the air tasted of salt. Whatever his companion was, the ship and his freedom were as real as they could be.

Reluctantly he turned over and looked at the wall on the opposite side. Noone there. He heaved a sigh.

"You are up." The tired voice from the door startled him. The prince almost fell from his hammock, scrambling up to take a defensive stand. His eyes narrowed, but the woman was not armed, not poised to strike, just standing there, looking at him with perturbing calm.

She inclined her head and gestured to the second hammock in the room. Then she said, that she would like to sleep now too, having made sure they kept their course and that his majesty would surely find the breakfast she prepared to his liking. With no further words the woman had passed him by and went to sleep. He could almost have laughed, because clearly that one was not used to sleeping in a hammock. Though she moved graceful enough when on her own two feet she had some difficulty to find a way into her sleeping place. She did not fall though and as soon as she had laid her head down she did not move anymore, suddenly fast asleep.

The prince stretched his legs, walking out of the cabin onto the deck. The creaking wood under his feet could have used some cleaning and the black sails were marked by the salt from the spray. A look at the hull from the shipside revealed a good amount of barnacles. The small vessel was obviously not tended to too well. However his strange companion had aquired it he had no clue. The dark colour of hull and sails suggested this was a smuggler. The provisions in the storeroom would get them well to Arendelle, food and water sufficient for more than two lone sailors.

He briefly wondered if he could put his torturer to work cleaning the deck at least, but the thought was strange to him. Just days before these hands had drawn his blood, made him scream in the most unpleasant ways imaginable. He crammed his eyes shut, grimacing, needles and knifes and pincers flashing before his minds eye. He should make her suffer just as much, but what for. Since she had helped him escape she had acted just like a good servant or underling would. That woman had followed orders, just to throw them overboard later and get him on board of a ship to freedom.

Nevertheless he thought that one could not do these things she had done to another without being twisted somehow. Sick down to the core. But would people not think that of him too?

He had been absolutely willing to cut down a helpless woman from behind, to lie and sheme and murder his way to a kingdom of his own. His own place.

Was there such a place for him? In Arendelle? This was madness. He once more took in the sight of the deck, a small barrel and a crate standing at the stern, bread, cheese and a tankard of fresh water prepared on top of the barrel. Breakfast she had said. He shook his head. A loyal servant.

The food was not poisoned and why should it have been. Going to these lengths just to have him killed after all? If that had been the plan she could have cut his throat while he was sleeping. Privately he thought that this would probably be her style after all, much more than poison.

If she liked to get her hands dirty so much, maybe it was just the right idea to have her clean the ship. Seeing her struggle with the hammock made him think, that perhaps she had not even been able to keep the course, but when he checked they were still perfectly well on their way to the ice-queens kingdom. If he could just make stop in Arendelle, take on some more provisions and shiphands maybe he could make a new life for himself at sea. Maybe as a merchant. Could his own place be the planks of a ship and the endless sea around him?

Going home was out of the question. They had wanted him dead and everyone there would recognize his face. It was not nearly as nondescript as that of his companion and he did not want to resort to wearing a hood all the time.

The sun rose up and the mist cleared away, the day promising to be as clear and pleasant as the one before. The prince adjusted the sails and filled a bucket with water, placing it in a corner of the deck for later. She ship was still in an acceptable condition, worn but reliable, dirty but rugged and sturdy. If he kept it, cared for it and hired some men to sail with him it would not be too bad. But maybe his torturer would not allow it? Maybe she would try to get him off the ship as soon as they reached land and take herself off with the vessel? But she was just one woman. _One armed woman_ he reminded himself. But nevertheless, just one, easily overwhelmed or maybe swayed?

He had not even inquired about her plans after their escape. Had she not said it was his decision where to go to? He looked to the closed door of the cabin where she still slept.

She had offered him her life, with this it would have been his ship anyway. His place.

He swallowed dry and scratched at his chin. Clean shaven again. He had kept the sideburns of course. They were dashing. He was still dashing. Maybe the queen would forgive him. Making a pass at Anna again? No. He had hurt her too deeply, probably even more than her sister. Aiming a sword at the one for a killing blow, leaving the other to die after breaking her heart? What was worse? You could always reason about the necessity of ending the curse of the ice the queen had brought over her own land, even at the cost of her life. But there was nothing that could excuse the empty promises he made to the sister and the cruelty of leaving her to die after refusing her what she had thought would have been salvation by her true love. True love. He snorted.

He had liked her well enough. But love? How to feel a thing he had never known? Cruelty he knew, power he knew, even duty and supremacy. Love? He shook his head.

Even if they would forgive him, he had nothing to offer a queen. His birthright did mean nothing anymore now that his life was forfeit in the only home he'd ever known. He would have been a good king, he knows. Just and proud and regal. Maybe even kind. Did he know kindness? Some of his brothers had been kind, from time to time. If they did not ignore him. One had given him a pastry once, because he'd had two and he had looked up at him with pleading eyes and he had been so very hungry. He chuckled at the memory. He had been such a kid. Hungry, because breakfast had been so long ago and dinner not served yet. Life at sea makes you reconsider these things. Not always was there enough ships biscuit to even properly feed the officers, not even if you were royal and stranded.

Small white clouds made their way overhead, like peaceful sheep on the bright blue canvas of the sky. If their journey continued like this he would not have to worry about stranding or hunger. At least not hunger of that kind. He looked at the door and sneered in disgust. That thought had been plainly wrong. Just because this was a woman? A mouth, breasts, hips, legs and that spot in between. He spat over the side of the railing. She was just a peasant. Ordinary. Just like other tavern wenches and whores. Not a princess. Those were not to be defiled like that. He had not even been able to bring himself to press his lips against Annas mouth. It would have been a pointless exercise, neither love nor lust fueling that kiss. She would have known then anyway and she was still a princess, better than that. Not to be used in such a way. Leaving her to die, twisting her heart until it broke was so much more satisfying.

Anyway, he was a prince and not one of the sailors he had gone to sea with. Even the officers had been known to steal away in the evening when they lay at harbour. Searching out the taverns for alcohol and the pleasure only the warmth of anothers body could give them.

He had been young, curious, he had tried. An expensive whore it had been, royal coin could buy you a lot of pleasure. He had learned much that night, mostly about himself. He had preferred his own ministrations further on to take off the edge, ease the tension. Women were bothersome creatures, clinging to your strength, wanting to be held, even those you payed. Deep inside they were searching for something he was not willing to give. For him there was only pleasure in pain.

Maybe too much so. What that despicable creature had put him through had been agony, but nevertheless he had to suppress the occasional shiver of excitement when she dressed his wounds or had her naked fingers touch him slighly before another stab of pain would leave him in senseless torture. The deep feeling of shame when she had at last even taken the last of his garments off him made him feel sick to his stomach even now. It had been abuse of body and soul and somehow in the darker corners of his mind he entertained the thought of bringing her an equal amount of anguish, using the body she tormented to bring the torturer herself into submission.

He grinned, closing his eyes and relishing the thought. Pleading black eyes, half opened mouth, moist cheeks, crying, crying, moaning. But even before his minds eye he found himself back in chains, the shadow under a dark hood before him, unseen eyes staring into his soul, probing, thin pale lips curving up into a smile, closing in on him. His lids snapped open, realizing his breathing had quickened, heart beating faster in his chest.

The creaking deck behind him alerted him of the others presence. Her voice was flat and sounded almost bored. "You've lost your course, your Majesty." She said and he blinked stupefied.

Her hand pointed to the compass and then to the weel in his hand. It was actually true, he had not been paying attention. He quickly adjusted their direction, the sails rustling in the breeze.

He ordered her to scrub the deck and she looked at her hands, then the bucket that sat there waiting. Shrugging she went to work, cleaning the worn timbers, humming a song that sounded eery to the princes ears. He looked down at her, hair bound into a tail at the back of her head now, hood down, seeming as normal as any other servant he had ever seen. The robes were still weird, dark and stained at the hem, but without knowing what kind of work his companion had done for his parents he would not have given it a second thought.

These hands were not used to wielding broom, mop or wipe, these were made for knife, pin and pincer. He consulted the map he had found in the cabin earlier and guessed they had not strayed to far, still making good way. The sun was already high up and his stomach growling in displeasure when the torturer was done with cleaning the decks timbers. Without being told she washed her hands and began preparing a simple dinner from salted meat and vegetables she got out of the ships hold. It was surprisingly good, considering the woman was neither cook nor kitchen servant. But he would not compliment the food, only eat in silence glowering at her back as she disappeared back into the galley, probably eating herself there.

They sailed like this for two more days. Eating apart, sleeping in shifts, him ordering her to clean this or that and teaching her some things about sailing. It was a wonder she had been able to bring the ship into harbour on the day she had freed him from confinement. That woman knew near to nothing about steering a ship. But if she had help the person in question did not seem to have told on them, for no persuers could be seen on the horizon, the ocean peaceful, endless and empty around them. They would reach their destination soon and then he would have to think again, about his future, about plans, about places and people and things. Somehow he wished he could float just a little longer.

She did not approach him needlessly, leaving him to his solitude and he would have been thankful, but it grated on his nerves as well. Had she no need of company? Did she never talk?

He missed talking to someone, conversing, even swordplay and chess and dancing, the things nobles do. There was not even a single book on that vessel to keep ones mind occupied.

When he approached her and ordered her to spar with him she looked almost amused. The nerve of that woman. He was an excellent fighter and a peasant like her had probably never really exercised her skill at wielding a sword. Nevertheless she complied, taking the blunted weapon he had found for her, the ship in his mind now surely a smuggler, for the things that were hidden in its hold.

It was fun, it was exhilarating, it was so easy to bring her down onto her knees on the wet timbers, looming over her fallen form swordarm raised to strike. Then she kicked his legs out from under him, making him hit the planks hard. He had bitten his lip and tasted the coppery flavour of blood on his tongue. Fighting back. Not that easy then.

His opponent had gotten back to her feet and stood waiting for another attack. Almost honourable, but foolish. He had been trained by skilled teachers from a tender age, was quick and strong and used to the weapons weight. The torturer wielded blades much smaller and lighter, all the fighting she could have known would be from brawls and barfights, if even that. But there was no worthier opponent to be had here on their ship in the middle of nowhere and she would have to do.

He stepped up to her again, diving into her range, blocking her swordarm and hit her in the head with the pommel of his sword. The womans body went limp, held up only by his iron grip on her arm, the sword falling from her hand, eyes rolling back in her head. They mirrored the blue of the sky above them. Not black then.

The prince lowered his sparring-partner down on the deck, unconscious as she was. It had been fun, even if it was just a short exercise. He wiped the blood off his mouth. Violence and blood, that was what it seemed to come down to between the two of them. But in this case he was fine with it. The weight of a sword in his hand, even if it was just a weapon of doubtable worth was reassuring. His grip tightened around the hilt. It was good to know he was in charge.


	4. The servant

_Pure smut ahead. I fear I strayed a bit in terms of grammatical tenses in the end, but feel quite satisfied with it either way. I hope you'll enjoy._

* * *

><p>Her head hurt. Flashes of lightning behind the closed lids of her eyes reminded her of what had hit her. <em>Such a nice fight my dear, such violence, such vigor.<em> Surely letting off some steam this way was rewarding in itself. She suppressed a groan and sat up, robes clingy and damp where she had lain on the wet boards. The grip he'd had on her swordarm had been tight, unyielding, surely it would go nice with the bruise her head would be sporting soon.

Maybe she should suggest the next game they would play. If he was so keen on toying with control her idea of fun might entice him. If it came to swordplay he surely had the advantage of her, what with all his experience with his weapon. The edge of her mouth twitched, not quite smiling.

She saw him with the back to her and had to admit that still, the view was a nice one. Loose fitting shirt, wrinkling in the breeze, black boots, tight breeches leaving little to the imagination. Not that she needed much imagination, her memory was not that bad. She should not think like that of her sovereign, but what was so bad about fancying him? He may have been noble born, but his family had wanted him dead, the prince he had been was dead.

Still she felt she owed him courtesy, even servitude. But entertaining the thought of bedding him, would that be so bad? He did not have to know now, did he? Her face was schooled in unmoved blankness, it would give away nothing if she did not choose it.

A speck of blood on the decks timbers caught her eye. Not hers, he had knocked her down, but she was not wounded, so, his. She had seen the blood on his lower lip after she had delivered that kick to his legs. Quickly she mopped up the few drops of the red liquid that had mixed with the saltspray on the boards using her floor cloth and bucket. She did try no to think too hard about how it would taste, probably of salt and copper. It was not blue, that much was sure. Ordinary blood, salt and metal and maybe just a little bit sweet. She licked her lips nervously. Weird thoughts, weird fancy. Blood was not the interesting thing, just a byproduct, licking it from the floor would be no more satisfying than cutting meats in the kitchen. Having someone moan or scream in pain or pleasure or maybe both, licking it from more or less consenting lips, that was more like it.

She had never touched her clients more than she needed to. It was a professional arrangement, real agony, with purpose and gain and the constant threat of death for either of them. Results were expected of her and results she got, fun had nothing to do with this. But she'd had lovers. Most had run when they got an idea of what she did for a living or when she proposed her more adventurous ideas of togetherness. She had laughed it off. Cowards the lot of them, not ready to lose control, not able to give up that sense of security that tethered them to their comfortable little lifes.

The last lips she had kissed had been those of the unlucky gaoler that had reported on her treatment of the prisoner. He had been in the way and luckily he had looked at her with that blatant stare of want. So easy to snuggle on to that lap, kiss chapped lips that hid a mouth full of less than well tended teeth. Her knife had ended that intimate embrace silently and swift, he did not stink worse dead than alive.

He had bled well too. The red reminded her, there was wine in the hold. Surely not the sort the royals dined on, but well enough for the likes of her. Fishers daughter, motherless. Smugglers daughter, clueless. Torturer, merciless?

She busied herself with honing her knife and found the prince to do the same with his sword some distance away. _I could polish that for you. _She shook her head and her mouth twisted into a lopsided grin. That proposal would surely go over well. The wind had taken up with the upcoming dawn and she tossed the knife into the air with a practised motion, catching it by the blade and putting it back into its sheath. Then the task of preparing supper took her attention and on a whim she added a glass and one opened bottle of whine to the tray. A shadow of surprise flitted over the princes face but was as fleeting as the last rays of sun kissing the clean and gleaming deck.

So he had not found the hidden stash of alcohol before, nice. Naturally she would tell him where she had found the whine and maybe the rum also if he asked or commanded her. She was just her majesties loyal servant after all. Had always been.

The look of surprise was back and lasted longer when she sat on the railing just a few paces away from the crate he had positioned himself on, and raised her own filled glass in his direction. Another bottle was standing at her feet, she did not presume to drink from the same bottle as him. Just a servant after all.

But it was only the two of them and eating alone in the galley grew boring. Furthermore the view was so much nicer from up here. The man did not move to drink, so she took the first sip, closing her eyes briefly, savouring the taste. She had not had wine for ages. This one was not too bad. Sweet and fruity, red as blood, smell almost flowery. But she was not at all a connoisseur, maybe it was really bad stuff. The prince as he tasted the liquid in his own glass did not seem impressed.

She asked if he wanted water and he shook his head, drinking deeper this time before clearing the plate she had brought him. Fruit and ships biscuit and dried meat, they had plenty and one did not dine bad on a voyage this short with so few mouths to feed and so full a hold. _To dine like a king._

His manners were better than those she had seen of others. Normally she did not like seeing people eat. Mouths biting and chewing, saliva, teeth, tongues, crumbs and morsels and that awful sound of smacking and munching.

Funny how many of the things she observed as disgusting while in connection with food could be quite inspiring in a completely different context. Body fluids, saliva, the smacking of lips, swirling of tongues, biting of skin. The juice of an overripe pear running down a cleanshaven chin, quickly wiped away with the back of a hand. She took notice and sipped her whine thoughtfully.

The piece of cloth in her outstretched hand was taken gracefully, chin and hands patted dry. Pearly white teeth behind moist lips, partly opened. The stem of the glass between long, nimble fingers, calloused by work on ropes and rigging and swordplay. She took notice and swallowed another mouthful of sweet grape juice. It stained the lips, she could see it on her counterpart, who seemed to look right through her. She saw him stand up and look at the compass, maps and finding everything quite in order. He returned to his drink and started talking. Apparently he thought she needed justification for the things he had done or maybe he wanted to justify his ambition before himself? Or he just wanted to talk and nothing else came to mind. She nodded and smiled and silently emptied her glass only to find it refilled by him. _The prince pours for the servant, interesting._

How long must he have kept this all to himself. His face was not betraying any feelings, if he was rueful as to his actions he was not willing to show it. More likely he could not see any other course of action open to him even now in retrospect.

Maybe there was none. Maybe he should have just waited a little longer, made sure the red haired one was dead before he moved on to kill the queen. Maybe he had just been to hasty in the end. She would not fault him. Her own ambitions had never exceeded the wish to stay alive. Feed herself another day, serve, oberve, wait. If it had been some other member of the royal family in her dungeon she may not have hesitated to deliver an end. This one had wished for a place for himself, had even considered a loveless marriage to elevate himself to king over a foreign land, just for the price of one life, the life of one she must take for a witch, because that was what they said of her.

We all have that bit of solitude, of craving, of want in us. Some just go to more desperate measures to get what they want. Is a home too much to wish for? And was he not raised for command, for leadership? It could not have occured to that man, that maybe there was something else to strive for. How could she fault someone for following the only path that had been shown to him.

Her path was one she had to find for herself and she chose blood. Chose it of her own volition and bathed in the glory of death and destruction. Without finding joy or fulfillment in it, admittedly. Living had been enough. Serving. Observing.

His lips had stopped moving as the prince reached the end of his tale. She took note of how they fit together, a small nick in the lower lip, where he had bitten down earlier that day and bled. The tender, rosy skin a bit swollen, tinted by the touch of the red wine.

She licked her lips unconsciously. Did he expect her to share her own story now? The tale of her own small and insignificant life? Or should she tell him about her observations, about what she saw? She had seen his excitement, despite the pain, the fear. Shame and bliss. Sweat on skin, gooseflesh where the cold breath of air hit naked skin. Embarressment and defiance in dark green eyes.

Her inebriated self was shaken from her reveries by his voice, cold and cruel. He called her a torturer, _that's right my dear_, a filthy rat that lived in his parents dungeons, _could not have phrased it better_, and accused her of delighting in the pain of others, _not quite right but I could show you_.

She sighed and shook her head, a small smile playing around her mouth. Her pale cheeks had coloured, the wine bringing some warmth into that body of hers, some colour to her complexion.

It seemed he did not like it, having told a lowly servant about his actions. Maybe he felt some guilt after all. She could not offer better company, could not choose to be highborn for his sake, just so he had someone of his own status to talk to. She entertained the thought of asking him if she had not bled the pride from his body thoroughly enough, but decided against it. So nice it was to see him angry, she had no intention of dying now, she had resigned herself to living for the moment.

As she emptied her glass once more he stepped closer, his own bottle in hand and poured again. Did he want to make her drunk? Getting drunk together, a nice thought, but not a very good tactic if they wanted to end their journey in harbour instead of on a cliff. She told him as much and saw those white teeth again, grinning down at her. An incline of his head showed the wheel secured by ropes, sails struck and the ship laying calm in the water. What was he thinking? Apparently he was in no great hurry. But what did she care for, neither was she.

"Did you want to insult me with truths, your majesty?" She asked and it was met with a nod. Just some probing, trying to get a rise out of her, so he reasoned. And wonderment, wonderment about a woman doing a butchers work. She laughed then, butchers at least produce something others eat, she just produced suffering and sorrow she said.

"Nice work with the ropes around the wheel." She said and he asked if she could do better. The first bottle of whine had been emptied and the second one was almost done for. She had grown bold and felt almost alive. Funny how alcohol could loosen ones tongue, especially if one were not used to its consumption. Of course she was certain of her skills with rope and knots and even chains. Did he want to test her on that account? He must have been quite affected by the whine too, for he looked thoughtful, even like he entertained the thought.

Then he gripped her wrist hard, the sleeve of his shirt sliding back a little bit exposing his own mangled skin where the shackles had chafed him raw. She could not have remedied this, a thing not of her doing, not deliberate. _Oh dear, for this at least I'm sorry._ His breath smelled of whine, warm and just inches from her face as he came closer, staring into her eyes as if he searched the window to her soul in their depths. Something she thought locked away deep enough for noone to ever find. Something she had denied before herself since her mothers departure.

She did not push him away, just waited with baited breath if an answer would come. Her heart fluttered beneath her breast like a caged bird. He could push her off the railing now for her insolence and the dark waters would swallow her, the green of his eyes the last thing for her to see before she drowned and sank to the bottom of the sea. Seafoam, seaweed, storm and thunder and the song of the waves everything that remained. Her bleached bones nibbled on by fish.

It was the lightest of touches, tentative, incredibly soft, probing again, not trusting, featherlight lips on hers. Her hand on his chest felt a heart thumping a steady but fast rythm, strong and alive. She was alive too, a tingling sensation filling her to the brim, on fire from lips to fingertips.

"Show me." His arm snaked around her, pulling her to him. Her form lithe and sinewy, not only from exercise but more from a hard life with no easy supply of nutrition.

Father had told her to get away, to take her mothers face out of his house where he would no longer have to see it. And her bloodied hands too, for what she did sickened him. Then he had thrown himself into bad company, doing a smugglers work instead of the honest business of fishing that had been his life. She had freed him from that at last. Just as she had freed this one that now was willing to be put back into constraint for pleasure rather than pain. She could do that, more willingly and with more verve than anything she had done for or to him before.

They found a place in the hold, some pallets, straw, sailcloth to get comfortable and some rings on the wall for securing the load through which she threaded her ropes. She ripped a piece of sailcloth using knife and teeth and bound it with care around the princes wrists. The second bottle, almost empty as it was sat beside her and she offered it to him. He emptied it, the glasses forgotten back on deck. Her knife she laid on a crate of potatoes, several foot away. She would not need it and had seen the doubtful glance it had received when she had unsheathed it to cut into the sailcloth.

When she bound his hands tightly with the rope the cloth served as protection for his wrists. If she'd had silk or velvet she would have used that she said with a smile and a wink and fastened the rope to the wall. Sitting upright against the hull, shirt already discarded sweat beaded on the princes brow. He probably already regretted his bravado in accepting to be bound again, doubting the whim that had brought him to this point. Nevertheless she could see eagerness too, tension in his muscles and in the set of that finely chiseled jaw.

The torturer let her fingernails graze along the sides of his neck, trailing downwards over his body, feeling him twitch and shiver below her fingertips. His eyes were heavy lidded, almost closed, mouth hanging half open, waiting, waiting. Her tongue darted out, licking her lips. She thought about kissing him, but then bent down taking a nipple into her mouth, tasting, licking, suckling, her other hand pinching its counterpart, eliciting a low moan from the man before her who arched his back towards her touch.

His skin was hot, almost fevered, his gasps like music to her ears. She liked that game a lot. And they had not even come to the part with the swordplay. "I am in charge." She said between licks and bites and nuzzling his skin, trailing her tongue over scars older and still fresh. "You will submit yourself to my control." She hummed against his neck, fingernails stroking softly behind an ear, then bit down lightly where her lips were resting against his pulse. He breathed acceptance and her lips curved up into a smile. She then whispered into his ear what he should say if really he should want her to stop. G_ive yourself to me, submit, but do not fear, not more than you can bear, never again._ He strained against his bonds, leaning towards her warm lips, that swirling tongue, those stroking, caressing hands, gentle as she had been when she washed the blood off him back in the dungeons.

She could feel his eyes on her, searching. She granted him a look into her own blue orbs, framed by long dark lashes, gazing into his, so much like a green stormy sea or a deep and silent forest. How she would like to set that forest on fire, see it consumed and born again from ashes, humbled, freed. His lips were twitching, his tongue moistening his mouth, waiting. Her hands were at his belt, feeling their way to the buckle and below. The prince was obviously keen on being rid of the constraints of his breeches, her touch received with an impatient bucking of hips. She grinned and kissed him then, deeply and passionate, his tongue searching for access to the cavern of her mouth, twirling, dancing, a groan into her mouth as she squeezed lightly before turning her attention back to the beltbuckle.

Still their mouths were pressed together, his lip still tasting a bit of copper, where he had bitten down on it, but more overpowering the taste of whine on his tongue and the hotness of his mouth. She could not remember ever being kissed like this, hungrily, desperate, breathless. She had extracted his belt and pulled down the princes breeches when they parted gasping for air. His eyes were wide open, not in fear but maybe surprise. Quite possibly he had not been kissed like this before either, maybe he did not know he had it in him. He seemed like a cold and calculating type, letting go like this was new, frighteningly so.

He closed his mouth, lips a thin line and closed his eyes while she pulled the boots from his feet. Something that was harder than one would think, she laughed and he had to smile despite himself. He sat before her on their makeshift bed of straw and sailcloth, feet stretched out, naked except for some undergarments. Her gaze trailed over his body, taking in every inch of exposed skin, every freckle and scar. Then another knife glinted in her hand and the princes head jerked up, brows drawn together. His lips parted, the word on his tongue, choked by upwelling fear. She could read it in those eyes, the doubt. She made a hushed sound, shhht, calming, reassuring. Her fingers touching his cheek, those ridiculous sideburns. _Don't judge, you really think they look dashing._ She smiled and kissed him again, lightly, silencing the word that threatened to spill over his lips, to stop her if he could, if she would even listen.

She checked on his hands, the fingers still moving, retaining their normal colour, the rope not cutting into the skin, cushioned by the sailcloth. Then laid the cold metal of the knife lightly against the skin of his hip, seeing gooseflesh raise up. Despite the fear, the suspiciousness that the sight of glinting metal in her hand had caused he obviously still was excited for the things to come, eager to be touched, certain parts of his body straining against garments hiding them from view.

The dull part of the knife slid over his skin, cutting apart the last shreds of clothing that obscured his bulging manhood. Her eyes flicked up to his face, smiling. The knife was thrown to the other side of the room, where it embedded itself in the hull, far above the waterline. _Freckles, still freckles._ She chuckled. Her tongue darted out to greet the new part of anatomy that presented itself to her attention now. How he moaned. Teeth scraping lightly. Gasp. Tongue twirling, flicking, teasing. Groans of pleasure, hips thrusting in desperation seeking deeper entrance into the moist chasm of her mouth. She pulled back her head and made a clucking sound with her tongue. "So eager my dear." He sniffed and evaded her gaze. She stood up and disrobed. To his disappointment shirt and linen trousers still hid her body from view even after the robes were discarded. And under the shirt a breastband. The torturer folded her clothes neatly on top of the crate that already held her knife. She did this slowly under the penetrating and angry gaze of her prisoner. When she dropped her trousers and leaned down to take off shoes and pants at once she thought she heard a small gasp. Seems she was not the only one admiring the view. _Well enough. _She was not used to putting on a show, mostly her aquaintances were too hasty for games of the sort. But then none of them had agreed to being bound like this before.

She scooted up into his lap, sensitive skin against roughspun underwear, warmth seeping through. She felt herself wet, craving the touch as much as he seemed to. She ground her hips against his and was rewarded by another moan, the twitch and pulse of his excitement against her still covered pelvis. She went back to playing with his nipples, small rosy buds she pinched with delight, licking lips that opened to her, invitingly. He bit her lower lip and she slid her hands into his reddish hair, scraping fingernails across his scalp, wanting him to bury himself inside her. _Say it._

Licking, biting, grinding, kissing, moaning, caressing neck, chest, thighs. _Say it._

Hot straining against her covered entrance, wetness, soaking through cloth. "Please." His voice a whisper, wanting, needing, begging for release.

She closes her eyes, pushing aside the last barrier that separates man from woman. Sliding in, warmth, pulsating, straining, stretching, pushing deep into her core, filling her. _Fuck patience._ She takes him into herself sheathed all the way in one swift motion. He groans into her mouth, lips pressed together, as they remain still for a moment. She does not move, relishing in the feel of him inside her, waiting. He struggles, tries to move, but his bonds hinder him, her weight on him pinning him down. Giving in she moves, slowly at first, but growing more urgent by the moment, heat welling up in her groin, snaking its way through her. Warmth, warmth, all the way up her back, raising gooseflesh along its way. His lips on her neck as she arches her head backwards. Teeth scraping over the sensitive flesh, trying to find purchase, a warm tongue tasting her pulse while she rides him closer and closer to the edge. He bites down on her shoulder, muffling a scream that threatens to leave his throat as she climaxes, the walls of her chasm convulsing around him, enveloping, pressure sending him over the edge as well. He's sweating, already feeling cold creeping in on his back, hands numbing above his head still bound, the half naked woman in his lap as spent and exhausted as he is.

She backs off, suddenly conscious of her body, her own scars and her state of undress. She grabs a cloth and starts cleaning him, dabbing at his skin, removing sweat and saliva and semen. Her hands open the knots that fixed him in his sitting position against the ships hull, gently massaging life back into limbs that had grown tired. He conceded to her ministrations, then took his clothes from her hands without a word.

She cleaned herself with the same rag, desperate to get rid of the stickiness between her thighs. The smell of whine and sex overwhelming. She breathed in and wondered, how people crave this so much, even her, even when the aftermath is so awkward. She winced in shock as he handed her her shirt. Looking up at him she felt green eyes resting on her face contemplatively.

"You need not care for me, your majesty." She said and bowed her head. "I am your loyal servant."

Shaking his head he went out of the room while she wondered if she had said something wrong.


	5. The man

It had been folly. He hoisted the sails again and gazed up at the sky with grim expression. Had that bit of sour, cheap whine clouded his judgement so far? But it had been interesting, quite enjoyable, more intoxicating than the whine and more satisfying than any other encounter with the fairer sex before had ever been. Giving up control, not being able to touch or move freely, that was new. Obviously it had been nothing like in the dungeons. He touched his wrist, the skin still showed where it had been abused during his stay in prison, but she had padded his restraints well enough. He did not hurt, except for that nagging feeling in the back of his head that something was not quite right. _I am your loyal servant._ Had he not had enough of those? He did not want her meek and complying. Damn torturer with her damn knifes and nails and teeth.

He lifted his hand up to his mouth, that last bite of his had broken skin, he had tasted blood and had still wanted to sink his teeth deeper into her flesh, tearing, rending her apart, savage and desperate. Maybe she was lucky he had been bound, but she had not complained, had she? Meek and weak. Or maybe not. Dead inside and resigned to her fate? Was that how people got if there was nothing to strive for, no glory to be had in insignificant lifes down in filth and neglect?

She had been warm and alive enough in their intimate embrace, grinding against him, glowing eyes boring deep into his soul. And afterwards, blackness, dullness, an unmoving and blank canvas of a face showing nothing of the light that had enveloped him in a warmth so unsuspected. Something he had felt so undeserving and yet thankful to receive. Bliss.

The stars above twinkled merrily as if to deny the things that had transpired in the hull of the ship, away from their skyward eyes. But he knew and once more he had learned about himself. Floating, without a care, nothing expected, no orders given, no command received, some other kind of freedom to be found in captivity.

Well he cared now. Folly, stupid, a lapse of judgement. She had not pulled back. Had him spill inside her. What did it matter now if he should spread his seed to every whore in every harbour he should visit further on. If his bastards should roam the world around the coasts of these lands, every last one of them finding a place for themselves in the gutters of this world. He grit his teeth. Was this what he had become? Filth himself. Let him be worthy of a princess now, in shabby clothes, fucking some servant, rutting like animals, biting and clawing at flesh as well as sanity.

Well, nobody needed to know. He did not even know the torturers name, no questions asked, no answers given. She had not once called him by his. Was that one also forgotten? Or had he been replaced in that dungeon by a darker, simpler man, one that was not fit to carry his name anymore? He tasted the word on his tongue, weighed its worth. His name. Given by parents that had given him nothing else. Too heavy to be spoken, whispered to himself. Too detached he felt from the man he had been when the red haired princess danced lightly in his arms. From her mouth his name had been music. He had silenced that music himself and could not bring himself to regret it.

Tomorrow they would be able to see land. This journey would soon end, as well as this floating without purpose, this circling around himself and around the other that seemed so mysterious at times, yet was so bland at others._ Loyal servant. Fuck you._ But at least she seemed to be sure of her place in the world. Not aspiring too high, yet obviously getting some of what she wants. If she wanted it. Maybe she did not. Maybe she had thought this was what was expected of her.

He grabbed the wheel harder, nails burying into the pliant wood. Should it be possible that not even that pitiable creature did want him? Not really? A song was playing, calling to dance the puppets and everyone was twirling about, jerking on strings, playing their part not even seeing the puppeteers sheme. She played her role, he would play his. A kingdom awaited on shore, maybe redemption, maybe another chance. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her approach him. Dressed again in threadbare robes, hiding her form, female and supple and deeply scarred. No need to ask. What did he care for a servants woes. She suggested he went to sleep and after he checked on their course one last time he nodded and went to his hammock.

Cold hammock, swinging lightly with the waves, lulling him to sleep. Among the susurrus of the sea he thought he could hear singing, a sirens song drifting down to him, enveloping his mind and calling him into oblivion.

He did not ask if it had been her voice he had heard when he relieved her from her post in the morn. She did not tell, as tired she passed him by, dark shadows under her eyes. Obviously she was yearning for some hours of sleep too. Like every morning they had been traveling together breakfast was prepared for him. _A loyal servant indeed._

Sleep. He could grant her that at least. What was there left to give for a prince that no longer was? Everything he had now had been taken without a word of thanks and offered without demands as to recompensation. Had been given by her out of loyalty. To whom? Him? His family?

Maybe it had been them who sent her after all. Had they found inside them a shred of mercy, of pity for the fallen son? Did they want him to humble himself before he went away to make amends to the icequeen that he had wronged? Maybe it was his duty to try and make peace, to offer her the pain that had been inflicted on him as a bounty of goodwill himself. If she accepted the punishment and took up trade and negotiations with the Southern Isles, maybe there was still much to gain.

Or she could be terribly cross with him to ever set foot on her lands again. Maybe it would spark war. Just as well. He could give his life after all and take with him those that had wronged him. Sword and blood and vengeance. Though those rang hollow to him.

He bit into the pear that had been laid out on the plate for him. Luscious and sweet it was, golden and smooth skinned. He thought of the white and flawless skin of the icequeen. Her sister could never be her equal. He remembered his harsh words vividly and found them true after all.

Maybe she would skewer him with blades of ice after all, piercing his flesh in cold blood, ripping him to shreds. But that would not be her, would it? It would require a certain passion he was sure she lacked. Cold, unfeeling, distant. It irked him that someone like her should know more about love than he ever did.

A sliver of grey appeared at the horizon. Through the looking glass he recognized the first patterns of Arendelles coast, the waters near the fjords entrance hiding sharp cliffs and ledges. Without a crew to speak of it would be hard sailing. If this ship was all he had now he did not want to lose it to some offshore reef a skilled sailor could avoid. The woman would be not much help. He decided to let her sleep.

As he neared the coast fisherboats came into view, the men on board hailing him. He did not fly any colours on the mast, nothing to identify him to these locals. He returned the friendly gesture, the fishermen probably wondering, why one man alone sailed such a vessel across the ocean.

Along the shore he carefully and slowly proceeded until he found the fjord at whichs end the royal city lay. He felt his neck prickling with anticipation. It was daring to come back here with nothing to offer but the marks of torture past. Let them see retribution had been delivered and hope for the best. Or death. That at least would spare him from thinking about his possibilities.

Having a choice was hard. A life in poverty? A new attempt to rise to power? The people here would not have it, even if the queen would have him, as unlikely as that was. They had seen him for what he was and probably despised him as much as they loved their icy sovereign.

Deckhands at harbour helped him to fasten the ship to the landing stage. A meagre amount of coin could be uprooted in the hold and he found a hat he tipped deep into his face, hiding some of his features. The locals at the harbour were not too perceptive, most of them did not take a second glance and even if they had, as a royal he had not spent much time with the lowlifes of the docks. They would not know his face anymore than that of their queen when she was hidden from view for so many years.

He tried not to look at himself too hard, ragged and dirty, the boots the only piece of his royal garments left. The only thing he had taken with him from the dungeon and before, his old life just a distant memory now, almost fading away, unreal.

He straightened his back as he approached the gates of the castle. They were flung wide open, a friendly welcome to the peasants of the kingdom, inviting in merchants, kitchenhands, the lowest urchins and highest ambassadors alike. The courtyard lay before him just like he remembered it. Fountains bubbling merrily, people milling about, nobody gave him a second glance.

The doors to the great hall were open but guarded, he steeled himself and approached, taking off the borrowed hat. It was time play his part again. Make the puppet dance for its life. He took on an expression of utter defeat and exhaustion as he adressed the guard. He was here to. Make amends. Dear god he. So sorry. Cough. No, thanks. Here to see the queen. Tell her.

They brought him before the throne where he fell to his knees. The scars he wore on his legs protested with the strain, the expression of pain that flickered over his features real. In shame he bowed his head. _Make her see you are a changed man._

Thaw the heart of the cold queen, sway her and make her pity the wretched man whom she had doomed to his fate. She looked down at his cowering form. The white queen, white hair, white skin, flawless like crystal, shimmering and beautiful. Her eyes threw sparks and her mouth was set into a thin line. That woman did not trust him, maybe she already knew him to well. He had been a liar and maybe he could not make her think him different now.

He told her of the dungeon, of the torture and ripped open his shirt in desperation. The reddened scars crisscrossing his body made the queen gasp, for a moment it seemed she would stand up, outraged. There was no torture in Arendelle, civilized people they were. Softhearted he may have called it in the past.

Blue eyes closed briefly, considering. Steady breathing. Thinking. He could see she was not happy with what had happened, but neither did she want him here. Not in her kingdom, not near herself or her sister. He may have suffered and he may have wanted to make amends, but here was no place for him. How had he come here? By ship. Then take your ship and go, you still have more than you deserve. No. Please. Reconsider. That was no life for a prince. You are no prince anymore, just a traitor. Witch. BEGONE!

The gesture was made in anger, swift and hasty. He looked down, expecting red to bloom on his bare chest. She looked at her hand, standing before the throne, arm outstretched as if she could not believe what she had done herself. He barked a laugh. Bitter. So Anna would be proven right at last. The only frozen heart around here would be his and he could not see himself capable of an act of love to rescue himself. He felt as cold as never before, sinking down before the queen, still standing in shocked silence. Eyes closing, darkness claiming him. A prince no longer, just a man and soon, not even that.


	6. The wolf

How was it that everytime she opened her eyes she opened them to pain? She rolled her shoulder, probing at it with a finger. She had applied some of the rum to the wound the evening before, this would probably keep it from festering. It was not deep, just a scratch, but human teeth could be wicked. In the dungeons she had once seen a man who got bitten by another, his hand first bearing just some minor wounds, quickly forgotten about. Days later when he lay in fever, sweating and screaming, the hand swollen and red, weeping pus there was not much to be done about that anymore. They had taken his arm, but it had been too late. Whatever bad elements had entered his body through the bite had been in his blood by then. Madness had claimed the prisoner, skin glossy and spanning over bloated flesh. His limbs thrashing about without sense and consideration for his own wellbeing. Splitting in places, bloody and just a damn mess overall. He had not even been good for extracting information when she got to him, too far gone into a world of desperate screams and bitter sobbing, crying for his mother or death.

She had granted him the latter. A small mercy. She had been so young then, disgusted still at the neglect the other gaolers had shown their prisoner. If one cleaned the wounds inflicted properly, using hot wine and salves to tend to them one did not lose them quite so fast. And not in such an inappetizing manner, stinking of pus and excrement. She liked to think of her own prisoners as her personal guests. Someone to tend to, to treat with respect, for it was neither their choice nor hers to come to this place. Everyone was bound to duty.

What was her duty now? She had run from it, something that had been unthinkable, but she could not help it. The prince. Make him her duty. There was nothing else left, so why not cling to the only thing left. If he let her. She would see.

She had been watching for so long, out of the shadows. The man that had been a child. Was she so old already? Or was he just young? She would settle for the second option. She still did not feel old, even though she had the feeling she had been watching for ages. Seeing bitterness and coldness creep into the features of one who seemed brighter than the rest of them. A damn pity. Darkness consumes as she had been consumed by the darkness around her.

She rolled over, falling out of the hammock and hitting the ground. The sounds of the waves were different, seagulls screaming hunger or bloody murder for all she knew. The muffled voices outside made clear they were not only near the shore but already in harbour. So that journey was over. She suddenly had no great motivation to lift herself up from the ground, the timbers below the safety and reality she wanted to cling on. But it was no use. This was just an old ship, stolen from her late father. She harboured no sentimental feelings towards it, apart from the solitude it had brought her, the freedom of being nowhere but with herself. Well, and with the other. She sighed. It was folly.

She knew she should ask him if her service was needed furthermore. If not, maybe there was something else for her to do here in this colder land, full of warmer people as she had heard.

Stepping out into the light of the day, the summers sun still burning with vigor, sky bright and blue and the ship safely tethered to the docks she had to close her eyes momentarily. Her hand shielded her face from the sun before she pulled up her hood. She must have looked suspicious, but she did not care. In the distance a girl was singing and deckhands were hoisting crates up to other ships or out of holds to be brought to the market. Everything around her was friendly and busy and alive.

She felt out of place in her faded robes, black turning to grey, going well with her pale complexion and ashen brown hair. Lifeless, joyless, just a little less alive in comparison.

Where was her charge? She looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of reddish hair, of a male form threading its way through the crowd but she saw nothing. She looked into the hold, temporarily distracted by the rumpled remnants of sailcloth in the corner, the sheets probably still smelling of him. She shook her head and took the small knife from the wall were it still stuck. _Chaste thoughts. Think servant. Think duty._

Where could he be? He had gone alone, probably not wanting her to follow. Should she stay, watching the ship? Worthless ship. It would be here later still, but if he had gone to the castle, that was dangerous. Folly. Like so many things. But when had he ever been drawn to anything else but power?

The torturer pinched the bridge of her nose. If the prince succeeded in talking his way into the castle and into the queens favour maybe everything would end well for him. She tried to imagine the icy beauty, her skin alabaster standing at the dais and on her arm the prince, proud and gleaming. Red hair flowing in the breeze, complimenting her flawlessness with his own handsome looks. The queen would look up to him with wide blue eyes, overflowing with admiration and love. He would hold her dainty white hand, bringing it up to his lips. Kissing. Melting, thawing, a picture of intimate togetherness. _Bloody unlikely._

It would be so nice to have somebody love him. Maybe that man could still find happiness and that place in life he so desperately had wished for. But to find it in the arms of one he had wronged so bitterly in the past, that was probably too much to hope for. The torturer felt almost sad, for she knew that image of a happy ending for the fantasy it was.

She should at least try to see if he was well. She had vowed to obey and to serve, so she owed him at least the descision what should happen with her. Without orders, what was she to do? The woman trudged along the docks in direction of the castle. Its towers standing tall in the distance marking her path. Some peasants glanced at her with open suspicion. Looking like an iconic image of death she expected such a reaction, she was just missing the scythe. Her eyes had adjusted to the brightness of the day and she shed the hood. That was better, she did not gain any more attention that way, her dull hair in its artless ponytail and longish face with blank expression not fair enough to look at and not ugly enough to stare.

The security around the place was laughable. Open, friendly faces everywhere, picturesque houses lining the streets and the castles doors wide open to the public. Nobody questioned her approach into the castles courtyard and she was very conscious of the knife at her hip, wicked curved blade thirsting for blood. If she were here to kill and maim they all seemed to make easy targets. She could spy no archers on the battlements and just two guards standing beside the doors to the castles hall. Behind those doors gloom, filled with figures moving about, crowding the hall. She slipped in with some other curious onlookers, the hall apparently filling with people drawn in by some commotion.

She slid through the wall of bodies to take a better look, the queen stood before her throne, face stony, giving orders. Guards were approaching the figure on the ground before her. Shirt, breeches, boots all too familiar. White wisps snaking through red hair, so fast you could see it changing. The torturer closed her eyes. Folly. That fool.

She pushed through until the onlookers bodies hindered her no more, falling on her knees before the queen, shining like a clear diamond before her, blonde hair framing a perfect white face, rosy lips pressed together to a thin line, she was a gleaming beacon in her beauty and a frightening presence of power. When her gaze hit the kneeling torturer her face scrunched up in confusion. Who were she? What did she want? Get those people out! Speak!

"Your royal highness, I am but a lowly servant." She began and offered her the story of their journey. She painted it in much more pleasant colours for the ice queens sake, the prince a valiant sailor, not only fleeing torture and imprisonment, but seeking out redemption in her eyes, for he had seen the wrongness of his ways, surely. Of course she left out any description of a dalliance. Who would have believed anyway, as she was just the lowest of scum, scraped from the dungeons out of kindness on his majesties part.

The queen looked doubtful but with pity in her eyes. The torturer decided against the admission, that it was her knife that had cut into the body laying prone before her. Instead she pleaded for the cold and gorgeous woman to find the love in her heart to forgive and take away the curse that would kill her liege. His breathing shallow, cold radiating from him, even gripping her in icy claws, a respectful distance away. Guards took the fallen prince and carried him away, the queen herself beckoning the torturer to follow. What was her name? Ylva. The wolf? Men is a wolf to man, your highness. True enough. What kind of wolf was she? A gaoler, of sorts. The answers seemed to satisfy the queen who led her to a room in which a couch was holding the recumbent body of the prince. A bright flame was burning in the fireplace, warming the room. Flowers by the window made for a homely atmosphere and the sun was throwing her rays through the big and clear planes of the window. Everything was bright and warm and lovely. The prince on the settee was conscious but his eyes darted around fearful as if he had seen a ghost. "Anna?" He weakly breathed and the queen narrowed her eyes. "She is not here and you should not speak her name." She said.

"This room." Green eyes closed, breath hitching. He was still so very cold. The torturer extended her hand and snatched it back before anyone saw. Clenched fists. "Please, your highness." She was begging. How pathetic. For all the poverty she had lived in she had never been reduced to begging.

The queen shook her head, lightly laying her hand on the princes breast, closing her eyes. What did she think of? Her sister? Her kingdom and her people? This land she loved, her parents, never forgotten? Surely not the one beneath her fingertips, rapidly whitening hair an unsettling contrast to red upholstery. _He is so cold._

Stepping closer she touches his cheek. She admits that she had been the one to cut him, that she had been the one to maim and torture and kill so many in the past. The butcher of the dungeons, the skilled spider, the wolf with gleaming teeth of steel. Dancing red ribbons, made of blood, tangling her, binding her in the agony of the wounded that had despaired under her fingertips. She deserves death more than him, who only ever strived for deliverance. Away from an unloving home, from a place that was none, ever changing, never safe. Why should he die? If maybe the warmth of her hearts blood. Her life the only thing she had to give. Would the curse allow an exchange? Her heart was still warm. See, the knife was right there. Or not. Her hand empty and cold, encased in ice. She had been about to thrust it into her chest, hearts blood for warming a freezing heart. Why would the queen hinder her? She was a murderer, surely she deserved no mercy. She would have ruined the couch. Fair enough. Some other place? Another try?

The queen was outraged. Called her stupid to throw her life away. Told her to take the prince and go. She could not help him. There was no love in her heart for the likes of him and she could not conjure it up.

The torturer did not understand why he should run a better chance with her. They even helped her carry him back to the ship. Into a hammock, a guard standing beside her, watching and waiting. Waiting for her lieges death. He breathed still, hair now completely white. Would he melt? She looked at the guard who showed no emotion. She had heard the queens orders. She was to live. But blood meant life, did it not? She lightly touched lips that had taken on a blueish hue. It chilled her fingertips. "My dear, I'm sorry." She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. What was he to her but her sovereign? Her last duty, the last one she felt allegiance to. Surely this was all. She was afraid of being left alone.

Before her minds eye she saw the redhaired boy beaten up by his older brothers. Then managing to sweet-talk a pastry from one of the others. He saw him stumble down into the dungeons and stepping back with a look of horror on his youthful face. She had hidden the bloody knife in her hand so fast, but not fast enough. Her smile had only made him flee faster. That was shortly before he was sent away. She had been so young still.

She sat on a chair beside his hammock. Waiting. Her hand stroked white tresses lightly. _If you have to go, go willingly and content._

The oldest brother had been the worst. Heir to the throne, a fine heir, very regal, very worthy. He had recognized her mothers face in her. Followed her into a dark corner. Very regal. Very worthy. Very cruel. She had been unconsenting and he had been rough and afterwards not willing to risk anything. How she had survived the deep wounds she had no idea. A vague memory of feverish dreams and other servants looking at her with a mixture of pity and disgust. Not even really a woman afterwards. Not that one would think it, just looking at her. But on the inside she was torn. She had known then, that there was no future. She had relished in the feel of a knife in her own hand. The power she had over the ones in her care. Worthy, cruel, heir to a kingdom of blood and guts and suffering.

That had been all she was and now she was not even that anymore. He was her anchor. _Please._

"Your name." He whispered so very low. She had to get closer, her ear hovering over lips tinted blue. "Your name is Ylva?" He coughed and it sounded like failing laughter. He started talking about another memory then, an older girl sneaking him sandwiches from the kitchen, where her mother toiled, sandwiches, of all the things. A wild girl with ashen hair that hit him with a stick just to take as well as she got, swordsplay it was, wasn't it? _I had been too old for that already. Folly._

Funny, he had almost forgotten. She held his hand, it was chilling her to the bone. She had once played with a boy and gotten punished for hitting a prince. Some of the earlier scars on her back. Not the most memorable either. But he was no boy anymore, nor a prince. Just cold. So very cold.

Her ear on his chest she heard his heartbeat slow. Sluggishly it thumped a rythm that could only lead to silence. _Please don't._

Tears stained his shirt. Whence did they come from? Her eyes wet, her cheeks. Not sobbing, just salty water running down her face. Melting, thawing.

She did not see him smile. His hand squeezed hers lightly, the other coming up into her hair. Dull, unkempt, ugly, boring hair. Like the fur of a mouse, or some feral wolf out in the woods. She felt petted like a loyal dog. Maybe that was what she was, what she had always been. Savage at times, ripping to shreds when ordered to, compliant to her master.

The hand buried into her hair, grabbed a fistful just at her neck, pulled her upwards with surprising strength. His eyes bore into her soul, probing. Then closing, half lidded. She moved of her own accord now. "If only there was someone who loved me." He smiled and she closes the distance, pressing her own pale lips lightly onto the ones of her prince. He sighed then, holding her head with both hands and caressing her neck with slender, calloused fingers. Her hand on his chest felt his heartbeat grow stronger, faster even as he bit her lower lip. Tasting her as if for the first time. Tasting her name on his tongue again. Kindness. He had known kindness, it had just been so very long.

When she looked up again the guard was gone. Probably he reported to that queen of his. Apparently there had really been no need for an exchange of lifes. She looked down at the man before her, hair already regaining its colour. She would not say the words. No question asked, no answer given. He knew.

"Your majesty." - "No." His finger on her lips. He shook his head.

"Hans."


End file.
